A Multitude of Sins
by roane
Summary: Sherlock takes advantage of having a good coat and a short friend.


John decides he's never speaking to Sherlock again. It's the only logical response, given that the man is determined to be the world's only consulting idiot. He finds Lestrade, who is in the middle of the usual administrative mess that follows a case. "Do you need anything else from me?" he asks.

"I think we're good for now," Lestrade says, barely noticing him in the middle of keeping an eye on forensics. "You can take Sherlock home as soon as the paramedics are done with him. Don't think they'll take him to A&E."

"No, I imagine not," John says. He's not waiting for Sherlock. John needs a long walk, alone, so he can figure out how he's gotten so involved with the stupidest genius he's ever met.

He's only a few streets away from the crime scene, when Sherlock catches up to him, a little out of breath from running. "John, where are you going?"

John doesn't answer. He's not speaking to Sherlock. His pulse beats in his head, his vision still twitchy with the rush of adrenaline, his hands opening and closing. He keeps walking.

Sherlock catches him by the sleeve.

John stops, looks down to Sherlock's hand on his coat, then looks back up to Sherlock. Whatever Sherlock sees in his face, he lets go.

John keeps walking.

Sherlock walks at his side. "As always, you were indispensable," he says. "I'd say brilliant, even. Comparatively."

Jesus. Even when he's trying to apologise he's a twat.

Grudgingly, John glances over, eyes flicking to the white gauze covering one temple. "You shouldn't be running with a head wound."

"It's just a scratch, it's nothing."

_Nothing._

"Nothing." He stops on the empty pavement. It's quiet enough, at this late hour, that he can hear Sherlock breathing. He's been smoking too much when he thinks John isn't paying attention-John is _always_ paying attention-and now he's losing his wind.

John laughs because he doesn't know what else to do. "You were shot in the bloody _head_, Sherlock."

The moment had been one of the worst of John's life. The sound of the Glock firing still echoes in his ears, followed by the thud of Sherlock dropping to the floor. In that instant, he'd known Sherlock was dead. Their suspect had been only ten feet away, aiming right between Sherlock's eyes..

John had charged at the man, heedless of the weapon. When Sherlock had touched his shoulder a few moments later, blood streaming from the wound at his temple, John had been slamming the man's head into the concrete floor of the warehouse. Lestrade had arrived a few moments later to take the now-concussed suspect into custody.

"It's just a graze," Sherlock says, with that tone that says 'John, as always, you have missed the point'.

John looks at Sherlock, there on that quiet street, and all of the rage, the blind, helpless horror of watching Sherlock die, comes pouring out of him. He grabs Sherlock by the coat and thumps him against the small space of brick between the hairdressers' and the shoe store. _"I thought you were dead."_

The shakes finally hit. He came so close to losing everything. All John can do is haul Sherlock down and kiss him, close-mouthed and hard. His intention-as far as he has any-is just to kiss the stupid git and then go home.

This isn't what happens. What happens is this: Sherlock whimpers, and then both of them are shaking. Sherlock kisses him back, opening his mouth and forcing his way into John's while he clutches John's jacket.

"Sherlock-" John tries to say, breaking for air, but Sherlock pulls at the buttons of John's shirt and puts his cold hands to the skin beneath, slipping them inside and around John's back. God his hands are cold, but is mouth is hot. The honk of a passing car pulls him back to reality. "Let's go home."

He steps back to let Sherlock go, but instead Sherlock spins him against the wall and pins him there. Sherlock and his coat surround him. The coat covers a lot of things, such as when Sherlock takes John's hand and moves it to his groin. His cock is hard beneath his trousers, and he arches his hips towards John's hand.

Not an hour ago, John knew he'd lost Sherlock for good. Now here he is, warm and alive and hard, pinning John to the wall and wordlessly begging for a handjob. It's irresistible, more so when Sherlock presses his mouth to John's ear and groans. The bastard. He knows what that sound does to John, the low, gravelly rumble of pure desperation.

John glances down either side of the street, which is empty, then unbuttons Sherlock's trousers and slides his fingers inside, the heat of Sherlock's cock even more intense through the single layer of fine cotton. Sherlock groans again and buries his face against John's neck. When John curls his fingers around his cock, his hips twitch.

"Hold still," John says. If Sherlock doesn't wind up thrusting his hips madly, they might just get away with this. Sherlock presses closer, trapping John's hand between his belly and Sherlock's cock. John takes advantage of it by finishing the job Sherlock started on his shirt, opening it the rest of the way. Now he can feel Sherlock hard against his belly, caught between it and John's hand. Sherlock ruts against him, just a little, and John can feel wetness on his skin. He bites his lower lip to keep from moaning.

With his left hand holding Sherlock's cock against his belly, John sneaks his right hand into his own jeans. Sherlock is too tall for them to fit together properly, not standing on a street corner and trying to be discreet, anyway, but John can manage on his own.

Sherlock bites the side of John's neck and presses in tighter.

"Hold still, Sherlock," John repeats.

"I can't." Sherlock pants against John's neck.

"Hold still or I'll make you wait until we get home." John's scalp prickles and his pulse throbs in his throat. Every flash of light in the corner of his eye becomes a police car.

"You won't," Sherlock says, and bites his neck again.

John strokes faster with both hands, feeling his knees start to tremble. Sherlock makes a stream of lost, broken noises as he fights to keep from thrusting against John's belly. John grunts. "Gonna ruin your trousers," he says.

"My dry cleaner's seen worse," Sherlock manages before fastening his teeth into John's neck like he needs something to hold on to. Or something to stifle his cries.

John's belly is getting slicker by the moment, and Christ he just wishes he could drop to his knees and do this properly. There are some things, however, that even Sherlock's Belstaff won't conceal, and John suspects a public blowjob is one of them. He can feel Sherlock tense against him, and just thought of Sherlock coming against his stomach in the middle of the street sends such a shiver through him that John nearly loses his grip.

"Come on," he snarls through gritted teeth. He doesn't get a slow cresting wave. As Sherlock's moans vibrate against his neck, John's orgasm slams into him, taking him by surprise. He's alive and Sherlock is alive and the combined heat of their lives is overwhelming. He buries his face against Sherlock's wool-clad shoulder and he couldn't stop his hips from jerking even if entire Met were standing there ready to arrest them both.

John sags, and Sherlock, too, throws away any sense of caution, and ruts against John's stomach until he stiffens and grunts. Hot wetness spurts over John's skin, cooling even as it lands, and John rubs his hand over it, knowing when it dries it will drive him mad, every movement a reminder of this moment. Sherlock leans against him, catching his breath.

"You're absolutely mad," John says, laughter threatening to bubble up.

"You wouldn't have me any other way," Sherlock murmurs.

"I would have you in any number of ways," John says, and just saying it sends a thrill through him. "And by the time we get home and out of these clothes, I might again."

"Mm," Sherlock says, nimble fingers refastening their buttons and zips beneath his coat. "I thought you were angry at me."

"I was-I am angry at you. When I tell you to stay, I fucking mean stay." It is, however, nearly impossible to stay angry at Sherlock when he's lightly teasing John's spent and sensitive penis with his fingertips. "Stop," he says, and squirms away, finishing up with his flies.

Once they're tucked away and marginally presentable (if one doesn't look too closely) Sherlock whirls away. "I wasn't hurt."

"This time," John says. "It was too close, though."

"I couldn't let him get away."

"You couldn't-I was _right there_, Sherlock..."

They bicker the rest of the way back to Baker Street.

* * *

The next morning-well, closer to afternoon, really-John checks his email and finds one from Mycroft, addressed to both him and to Sherlock.

_Gentlemen:_

_Fortunately for the two of you, the CCTV cameras at the corner of York and Upper Montagu Street experienced an unusual and unexpected failure last night roughly around 3 AM. My associates are looking into it, but I expect they will find no cause, and the surveillance footage from that location and time will be lost forever._

_A pity. There are several tabloids in London that would pay a fortune for definitive proof that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are more than "pals". Do be a little more discreet next time._

_And Sherlock: I'll expect your assistance without quibbling the next time I require it. Imagine the scandal if that footage were to reappear._

_-M_

"Bloody hell," John says, sitting back in his chair. "Your brother is blackmailing us."

Sherlock looks up from his microscope and waves his hand. "Idle threat," he says. "Besides, I have as many secrets of his." He leaves his microscope to cross the sitting room, turning John's chair and leaning over him. "Besides, I think it was worth it, don't you?"

"Mm," John says, and pulls him down for a kiss. "I'll remind you of that when he comes to collect his favour." Sherlock settles into his lap and they kiss lazily until something occurs to John. "You don't think he was watching, do you?"

"John, if you ever want to have sex with me ever again, please refrain from mentioning my brother while I'm trying to seduce you."

John grins. "What brother?"

"Much better," Sherlock says, and leans down to kiss him once more.


End file.
